Stained-Glass Heart
by mrsrobin
Summary: Sherlock had a stained-glass heart, and it was breaking. The untold story of Sherlock Holmes's lost love.
1. Epilouge

Stained-Glass Heart: Epilogue

By: E.R.M

He opened his eyes. Everything was white, depthless and blank. He was someplace, but yet, not. There was no beginning or end, no walls, no anything. It was nothingness. He was increasingly distressed. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could see or analyze. Not even an obtuse mark on the not-wall to comfort him or occupy his mind. He couldn't hear his footsteps, his breathing or any sound at all. It was like being in an isolation tank, deprived of all senses, except there was no hope of escaping, no possibility of change. He began to panic. It was only thing he could hold to, the slicing panic and horror in his chest.

He tried to figure out where he was. He couldn't. He tried to figure out who he was. He couldn't. The only thing he knew is that he was alone, utterly alone.

Then he heard something, a breath, a slight noise barely audible. He turned. There was a girl, or rather a young woman standing there staring at him. She was wrapped in a brilliant green dress, her bright red hair trailing down her back like flames. He sighed in relief. The girl's presence gifted him with depth perception, a sense of direction and a flood of new things to his mind. The colors of her clothing and hair, the pale facets of her skin, the shape of her body and the patterns of her respiratory system brought relief from the terror of sameness.

The girl looked a bit frightened of him now that he had returned her gaze. She seemed as if she didn't know whether to run away or approach him. He also noticed that she didn't seem to know where she was either. For some reason he wanted to comfort her, make her feel secure rather than lost. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, hold her and tell her everything was okay.

This confused him. He had never been a caring man, nor one to make any contact with people. This girl defied his normal laws of conduct and his code of life. '_Odd.' _He thought.

He walked towards her and offered his hand.

The girl took a step back. She was tentative, cautious, and defensive, even. She looked over him, the contours of his face, his slender form and towering stature. Her green eyes seemed to penetrate his mind and soul, peering into his deepest thoughts and wishes. She paused a moment, deeming him acceptable, and placed her hand in his.

As she stepped forward, a long stroke of a violin penetrated the quiet. He took her waist. With every movement the music grew more layered and detailed. Sweet vibrato filled the air and cascades of notes fell as they danced. The music seemed to be coming from her, like speech, but with much more meaning than petty words. Somehow, he understood this language. He knew what every sound, rest and accent meant. He understood _her_. The music wove around them pulling them closer and making every moment more intimate than the next. He was suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss her.

He pulled her forward and pressed his lips to hers. Behind the kiss, her eyes and face filled with surprise. The music grew stronger as she fell into his arms. He weaved his fingers through her tousled hair, his other arm still wrapped around her waist. She was holding him by the shoulders for support, as she was on the tops of her toes, stretching to reach his face. They both pulled away with joyous grins on their faces. He was lost in her eyes, alight with happiness. She loved him and he her. Suddenly, she coughed blood into his face.

The music stopped. The only sound that could be heard was her sputtering coughs and gasps for breath.

She collapsed to the ground. He did not care about the red being sprayed on his skin, only her. He held his love, his eyes searching in desperation for the problem. Terror filled her eyes as she struggled to stay coherent. She silently mouthed _'Please'_. There was nothing he could do.

The blood started pouring from her eyes ears and mouth. The thick scarlet was diluted with the tears streaming down her face. It pooled around her head, matting her hair and saturating her dress. She tried to reach her hand up against his face but was too weak to hold it there for more than a second. He grabbed the delicate fingers and held them there for her.

She was fading. She was struggling to keep her eyes open and her skin was paler than the white that was their prison. Her breathing was shallow and occasional. He felt wet roll down his cheeks. _'Please don't leave me.' _He pleaded in his mind. '_I beg of you!' _

Suddenly her hand went limp under his and her breathing ceased. He frantically felt at her neck begging soundlessly for a pulse. He found none. Her eyes were no longer filled with the brilliant personality that they once contained. He held her, rocking back and forth. She was gone. His light had burnt out and now he was in the dark. Alone. For all of eternity. The darkness closed in on him.

"ELIZABETH!" Sherlock darted up in his bed, screaming. He was breathing rapidly, his blood pounding in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He clutched his knees, sobbing. The nightmares had found him again. They tortured him whenever he slept, mocking him with the horrors of his life that he had longed to forget. His mind was filled with _her _now and there was no stopping the flood of memories. He buried his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," He whispered, "Please forgive me."


	2. Chapter 1

**I am so so very sorry for the massive time gap. I've been rather busy lately and haven't had the time to type my handwritten stuff. Well, here is kind of an unexciting chapter. Never fear though! I am currently in the middle of typing down the first "real" chapter. Thanks so much!**

**-Robin**

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John sighed he stretched, pulling his aching back off of the bed. He had had a late night at the clinic; a kid had gashed his arm open on some glass and wouldn't sit still for the numerous stitches. He didn't blame the child; it wasn't exactly easy to not fidget when there was a needle being pulled through your skin.

John's wound was bothering him. The Afghani surgeon who had first treated him on the battlefield was hardly thorough with removing the bullet fragments. He sighed again, tossing his legs over the edge of the bed and planting them on the ground. He went through his usual morning routine, taking a shower, shaving, brushing his teeth, and then finally throwing on a comfortable jumper and some jeans.

John made his way downstairs and into the lower section of 221b, heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

He inhaled. Somehow the odd mix of chemicals, Mrs. Hudson's baking and old papers smelt pleasant.

"_Not pleasant_," John thought. "_Like home."_

He had quickly grown accustomed to sharing a flat with the rude, eccentric, **brilliant**, Sherlock Holmes; despite being so for a relatively short time. There was something spectacularly intoxicating about constantly being in the face of danger and excitement. Now that he had gotten a taste of such interest in his life, John wouldn't have given it up for anything.

While waiting for the water to boil, John noticed his laptop sitting on the floor with a spilled mug of tea leaking dangerously near it. The computer was still on, slowly eating away at his battery.

_"Come on Sherlock! Again?" _John mentally tutted.

The screen was on Sherlock's email account, text blaring across the screen. He scanned the letter briefly.

_Hey Buddy!-Little help-situation at the bank-Thanks-email me back._

Just another request for his expertise from a client, as usual. That still would didn't stop John from scolding him yet again.

"Hey Sherlock! What did I tell you about using my laptop?" He yelled down the hallway. Sherlock was most likely walled up in his room, texting like a maniac.

"You alright?" John felt his face contort. Sherlock usually always had some smart-aleck response to even the slightest of his queries. But not a single sound came from the room.

John made his way down the hall. As he neared the door, a small sob could be heard through the wood. He knocked on the door. No response.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in whether you are decent or not."

John, prepared to find a locked door, was surprised to find that the handle turned with ease. He cautiously stepped into the room. He didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

The sheets and comforter were ripped off the bed, now swathing Sherlock on the floor. The man on the ground was not the man John knew. He was curled up into a ball clutching a green length of fabric, rocking back and forth. Sherlock turned towards John, just now noticing his presence. With eyes red, hands shaking, he resembled more of a lost puppy than an arrogant consulting detective.

"Please, John." He whispered, "I need you to know."

"Know what Sherlock?"

He shifted himself over, inviting John to join him. He accepted, groaning as his shoulder was jostled in the process.

"Know what?" He repeated.

"What happens when those who are heartless, care too much."

John's features contorted into a mix of confusion and concern. He had never heard his flat mate speak like this. What had come upon him? Whatever it was, it seemed to eat away at his soul, ripping him apart from the inside. Minutes passed in silence.

Sherlock closed his eyes as another tear fell down his alabaster features. Finally, soft words escaped from his mouth.

"It all began 10 years ago."

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